


there's roses blooming beneath your cheeks (like blood blooms beneath my trembling hands)

by orphan_account



Series: Flowers and Tattoos [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Flowerchild!Harry, M/M, Oral Sex, Punk!Louis, Sex, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, a shit ton of metaphors and similes, alternate univers, and idk why i can't just write happy im so sorry pls forgive me, hope none of you leave here too disappointed, im sorry if this is shit writing, not really explicit though, so incredibly sorry, there's a shit ton of angst, there's fingering but nothing really explicit i guess, these are all really awkward tags tbh, um, umm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/731741">flowers in your hair (are like the ink that stains my skin)</a> flowerchild!Harry and punk!Louis <em>(Louis thinks he loves Harry)</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	there's roses blooming beneath your cheeks (like blood blooms beneath my trembling hands)

**Author's Note:**

> wow okay so flowers in your hair has over 10,000 hits! First of all, I'd really like to thank all of you for reading my shit writing, and I'd like to thank those of you who commented, because comments make me happy :) .x
> 
> A special thanks to [indecentboyfriends](http://indecentboyfriends.tumblr.com) for keeping me motivated ~~and letting me steal a line from her fic to use in my title~~ , my twin [speaksarcastically](http://speaksarcastically.tumblr.com) for having patience with me, and all of my followers for showing me so much love :)
> 
> also now in [polish](http://cheerfultown.tumblr.com/post/66507936134/theres-roses-blooming-beneath-your-cheeks-like-blood)
> 
> thanks, all, and I hope you enjoy this! :) .x

_+_

Louis thinks Harry doesn't know what he does to him (with the way he stands on grassy hilltops with his pale arms spread wide, smiling brighter than the sun that shines down on them; doesn't know what he does to Louis with the way he wraps his arms around him and kisses him like it's their first (and last); thinks Harry doesn't know what he does to Louis when he lies amidst the wildflowers looking like he belongs, looking like he'd grown straight out of the ground, grown into his long limbs and large hands, grown into his curls and too bright smile that Louis’ afraid will burn him, grown into his slim hips and thin waist, grown into his perfect lips that Louis’ bruised with his own, grown out of the stereotypes the world tried to mold him into and grown into Louis' very own wildflower).

(Harry thinks Louis doesn't know what _he_ does to him, with tattoos that look like beauty in the form of ink, with hair that's bright red, always put up in a quiff, but soft like Louis' lips after they spend hours kissing messily, soft like Louis’ eyes in the morning when he wakes Harry up with gentle kisses on his neck. Harry thinks Louis doesn’t know what he does to him with his strong hands littered with obscenities and lyrics and _words_ , _so many words,_ touching Harry softly, like Louis’ afraid he’s not real, that it’s just a dream (and there’s this one night they never mention or talk about, when Louis was drunk off his ass, and he was tracing the bruises he’d left on Harry’s hips apologetically, whispering that he was afraid Harry might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough). Harry thinks Louis doesn’t know what he does to him with his bright laughter that fills the entire room with light, doesn’t know what he does to him with metal piercings that glint beneath the twinkling lights hung on Harry's bedframe each time they fuck, making Louis look like the type of danger Harry craves.)

The moonlight filters in through half-open curtains, and Louis isn't sleeping even though it's probably close to midnight. He's been sitting up against the headboard for the past hour or so, and he can't get his mind quiet enough for him to be able to shut his eyes and fall into sleep (he thinks if he could just fall into sleep like he falls into Harry, everything would be easier).

Harry has his face buried in a pillow, face-down, snoring softly beside him (and he shouldn’t find it endearing, but he does, and he’s kind of disgusted with himself for falling so deeply for this boy who wears crowns made of flowers, who has a gentle way of speaking, like words are too fragile to just _say,_ so they have to be wrapped with the softness of Harry’s lips, the smooth glide of his tongue), and there's rose petals laying haphazardly on the sheets, staining them red (like the sun stains the sky red before it sinks down low into the horizon so the moon can have its turn, stains the white sheets red like Louis’ eyes every time he doesn’t sleep enough, red like Harry’s lips after he gets down on his knees for Louis, red like the blood that Louis sees behind his eyelids every time he closes them); there's rose petals in a line down Harry's spine where Louis carefully placed them a half-hour ago (‘ _roses down your spine look so divine, yes, so divine, I think that they’re the reason I would make you mine, yes, make you mine’_ ) in an attempt to give his hands something to do, staining Harry's skin crimson where they bleed color (like Louis’ heart bleeds a little bit for Harry even though Harry never asked him to).

(Louis does a lot of things that Harry’s never asked of him.)

The Christmas lights hung on the metal headboard still twinkle above their heads, and by now Louis' memorized how Harry looks beneath them (his hair curling sweetly around his face, shadows playing across his cheekbones, light dancing on his lashes, painting shadows on his skin), has already burned the image of Harry beneath the moonlight into his fingertips (when loving is so easy, everything seems easy when the night swirls around fragile hearts, and covers their writhing bodies like a blanket of snow covers the ground in the morning when it’s too cold to breathe right (too cold to breathe at all), draping across their hearts and leaving them frozen), has already tattooed Harry’s innocence across his heart (as broken and cracked as it is).

Louis thinks he loves Harry.

(Louis thinks he loves the way Harry covers his inked body with his smooth and flawless one in the mornings, whispers sweet nothings into his ears, and fucks him into the mattress like tomorrow isn't coming (there’s always a sort of electric desperation that intoxicates the air they breathe whenever Harry fucks him. Because Harry loves him so gently, but his hands are everywhere, his lips leave bruises, and he fucks Louis like it’s the last time he’ll be able to, like he thinks it’s not ever going to last, like he thinks Louis is going to disappear); he thinks he loves the way Harry smiles at Louis like he's something wonderful, something brilliant. Louis thinks he loves the way that even though it might be safer to let go, they cling to each other like magnets, almost, because the both of them are like—they’re like elastic bands, because even when they’re stretched out far enough to break, they always snap and end up back where they started, flung together again, their beating hearts shouting out for something a little less painful. Louis thinks he loves the way Harry loves him like he's the air he breathes, the flowers he loves, the warmth he craves.)

Louis thinks he loves Harry, and he's terrified.

(Louis’ heart is empty and broken and falling apart, but he thinks he’ll be okay so long as Harry brings some drugs to numb the pain, sex to cure the silence, and love to fix the pieces that he’s fallen into like he’s fallen from the safety of his guarded heart.)

(Louis wishes he knew how it happened. Wishes he knew how he fell in love. Wishes he could pinpoint it on the map of his heart, so he could go back and revisit it a million times over. He thinks that maybe it’s like that one book Harry made him read aloud to him that one time Harry couldn’t drink enough to quite shut out the noise of the busy streets below, that one time that even Louis’ hands couldn’t make Harry forget. He thinks that maybe he fell in love the way you fall asleep; slowly, then all at once.)

Louis dreams of Harry in colors that don't exist (like the color of Harry's coy smiles whenever he thinks Louis is the only one looking, or the color of his lips in the morning, after they've drank their tea and ate their breakfast, or the color of their tangled hearts lay bare on crumpled sheets while they fuck, their moans and sweat and gasps spelling out words Louis doesn't quite understand, in tongues Louis wishes he could speak so he wouldn’t feel quite so lost within the sea of wrecked hearts they’ve dove headfirst into); he dreams of Harry in places that are impossible (like the sea when there's clouds rolling in and there's rain pouring down, Harry standing in the middle of it all as if he were the one causing the wind to billow around him, and thunder to shout out noises that sound suspiciously like Harry’s name), dreams of him in ways he can't describe (like the way he can't describe how too much is never enough, the way he can’t describe why everything beautiful reminds him of Harry, like the way he can’t describe why he whispers Harry’s name into the wind like it’s a terrible secret, like the way it's impossible to describe how he fell so easily into the rhythm of their beating hearts).

(Louis dreams of Harry in colors that don't exist.)

(Harry dreams of Louis in colors that do.)

+

There's things that Harry's wont to do, like making crowns out of flowers, and playing with Louis’ hands while they lie on their battered sofa (their sofa that smells of cigarettes and citrus and _them_ ) as they watch crap television. There’s things he’s wont to do like singing in the shower (and singing while he’s cooking, and singing while he’s reading, and singing while he cleans, and singing while he loops flowers together until they look like crowns, and sometimes he’ll hum early in the morning when the first rays of weak sunlight filter in through the windows), and leaving hickeys on Louis’ collarbones (dark against his skin, right above the words ‘ _it is what it is’),_ and parading around in nothing but Louis’ oversized band t-shirts (not that Louis really minds that. Harry looks fantastic in nothing but a cozy-looking, worn-out, lived-in t-shirt), but Louis' favorite Harry Habit is his obsession with taking pictures.

Harry has an old Polaroid camera that he takes with him everywhere, always quick to snap a picture of Louis whenever he's not paying attention. (Harry’s wall is covered in candids of Louis. Some of them in black and white (“ _It adds dramatic effect, Lou)_ , and some in a myriad of brilliant colors (“ _Because. While you look good in black and white, you look even better in living color”)_. He’s got pictures of Louis in a white tank top and black swim shorts, staring up at the sun with a grin on his face, a hand reaching out to try and touch the brilliantly blue sky, the sunlight shining down on him, making him look ethereal the way it gleams through his bright red hair, as if combing through it with long fingers streaming light, making him look godly the way it makes his tattoos stand out in stark contrast to his skin, looking like they’ve somehow carved themselves into the space Louis once reserved for roses to bloom (beneath his skin, on his wrists, on his legs), looking like they’d always been there to give Louis an extra sense of rebellion, an extra sense of self.

Harry has pictures of Louis and him on that road trip they took down to a music festival, where Harry had forced Louis to wear a white and purple flower crown the entire way there, the colors clashing beautifully with Louis’ hair (Harry wore a pink one that made him look young and free and _innocent_. And Louis felt his heart break a little bit more each time Harry looked at him with eyes big and green like fucking _emeralds_ or something); he has pictures of them lying in the back of their piece-of-shit car, smiling at each other (and Louis will deny it to his last breath, but the picture of Harry’s lips pulled up in a private smile as he looks down at Louis lying beneath him in the backseat of their car, skin of his arms red from the leather upholstery sticking to it, is his favorite, because the sunshine streaming in through the window lights up Harry’s profile and makes him look fucking _light_ , like he’s nothing more than an illusion, just close enough to touch, but not real enough to keep); Harry has pictures of Louis driving down the winding road at night, the full moon lighting up the outline of his face, the darkness swirling around the contours of his cheekbones, the dim light reflecting off his clear eyes and making him look inhuman. He has pictures of them kissing inside the small tent they set up (though those pictures were taken by Niall—some Irish lad they’d befriended at the music fest—as he had stolen Harry's camera to " _give yeh a break, Harreh. Go on and kiss yeh boy or somethin’_."), their hands bunching up their respective t-shirts, cheeks flushed and lips red as roses.)

(Louis favorite Harry Habit is the way he takes pictures like pictures are the only things he’ll have left when today is gone.)

+

In the morning, Louis wakes up to Harry’s lips wrapped around his cock, his head bobbing as he takes Louis deeper. Louis buries his fingers in Harry’s curls as he bucks his hips up, feeling his cock hit the back of Harry’s throat. And the thing is—Harry lets him. Harry lets Louis use him, lets Louis fuck his mouth until he comes (would probably let Louis shatter him into a million little pieces and put him back together using nothing but his tongue)

Louis comes with his cock in Harry’s mouth, his fingers still buried in Harry’s curls, his name on Louis’ lips like a prayer.

(Harry is the only prayer Louis whispers at night before he sleeps, the only prayer worth saying, the only prayer worth repeating.)

Harry pulls off Louis cock with a pop, and suddenly his lips are on Louis’, and Louis doesn’t even care that Harry still tastes like his come, because he can still taste the innocence and citrus beneath that. He rolls them over so that he’s on top of Harry, running his tongue across Harry’s bottom lip, sliding it against Harry’s tongue, kissing him in a way that leaves them both breathless.

Sometimes Louis wonders if Harry’s made of porcelain, the way he feels so smooth beneath his fingers, rosy cheeks and glassy eyes, body arching beautifully every time Louis hits the right spot.

(He wonders how far he’d have to bend Harry before he breaks.)

Harry lies back and sinks into the pillows and crumpled bed sheets, spreading his legs like he’s been paid to do it, lifting his arms up to hook his hands around the metal frame of the headboard, looking up at Louis through half-lidded eyes, lazy smirk twisting his lips. And _fuck._ Harry’s got these lithe thighs that put professional dancers’ to shame, the way they wrap around Louis’ hips like a vice; Harry’s got these silky legs that seem to go on forever (and Louis’ seen those legs in heels, has seen them stretched wide open, has fitted himself between them and fucked Harry until he couldn’t walk).

And suddenly Louis wants nothing more than to take a picture of Harry like this, just like this. He wants to take a picture of him with his legs spread, arms curled above his head, mouth open in an ‘o’, his cheeks flushed, bits of rose petals trapped in his mussed curls, his head tilted in invitation, his eyelids fluttering slightly.

So he does.

He grabs the Polaroid camera that Harry keeps on the nightstand and snaps a quick picture, letting the photo that slides out flutter softly onto the crumpled sheets below him.

Harry doesn’t move, just raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘ _really?’_ , does nothing but laugh, and roll his eyes, placing his hands on Louis’ hips, digging his fingers into Louis’ hipbones.

So Louis grins wickedly and crawls closer to Harry, scooching further up until he’s fit himself perfectly in Harry’s lap, camera still in hand. He winks at Harry before grinding his arse down onto Harry’s erection, snapping a few more pictures of Harry’s eyes blown black with arousal, bottom lip between his teeth as he struggles to keep the noises in. Louis snaps a few more, letting the rest of the photos fall to the bed, too.

And it looks like Harry’s had enough of the teasing, because he’s lifting himself far enough off the bed to kiss Louis’ neck, whispering things like ‘good morning, Lou’, and ‘didn’t know you liked taking pictures so much’, and ‘I think I’d like it if we could fuck, now’ into the hollow of his throat.

Louis groans, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulders, his open palm sliding down Harry’s naked back, sliding down Harry’s spine, feeling each nob and indent (and Louis thinks he’s already fallen down the staircase of Harry’s spine, he’s already thrown himself off the top and tumbled all the way to the bottom, his body bruised, and his heart still beating loudly in the cavity of his chest).

And there’s slippery fingers sliding against his skin, slippery fingers circling his hole, and Louis grabs Harry’s wrist, throws his head back to groan shamelessly (“ _Wait—Harry—clothes. Clothes—off. Off, now_ ”). So Louis tips to the side (the pictures he’s just taken of Harry sticking to his heated skin), struggling to get his too-big shirt off while Harry does the same, their clothes landing somewhere on the floor.

And Harry is on top of him, now, his body covering Louis’ trembling one, and Louis thinks ‘ _beautiful’,_ while Harry says ‘ _gorgeous’,_ and Harry’s fingers are preparing him, and Louis can’t do anything but lie back and take it, his hands gripping the flower-stained sheets, because it feels like he’s shattering, feels like there’s glass pieces of him falling onto the bed and embedding themselves into Harry’s skin (and Louis doesn’t think that’s so bad, as long as Harry can’t get all the pieces of him out).

Louis’ hips move of their own accord, bucking down into Harry’s hands, and he’s muttering words that seem incomprehensible (although Harry catches the words ‘more’ and ‘please’ and ‘fuck’ often enough), but he doesn’t want it to end, wants there to be more, needs Harry to do something— _anything._

So Harry obliges.

He scissors his fingers once more, just to make sure Louis is ready, before replacing them with his cock, his hands spreading Louis’ knees apart as he slowly starts to move. He fucks Louis like he needs, fucks Louis like it’s their last time, fucks Louis like he feels the same sort of empty that Louis does whenever he’s left alone for too long. And Louis wraps his arms around Harry and breathes in the high that Harry exhales, breathes in the way that Harry fucks him slow and gentle, his desperate hands belying the gentle way he rocks his hips.  And between gasps and moans, Harry asks Louis if he’s alright, if this is okay, and Louis thinks ‘ _ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,’_ but says, “Yes—perfect—just. More. Harder. Please—“ and he knows Harry doesn’t quite believe him when he says he’s fine, but he snaps his hips faster anyway, folding himself over Louis in an attempt to make him whole again.

Louis digs his nails into Harry’s back, leaving behind crescents that look like a brand on Harry’s skin, and Louis hopes it is, hopes that people see it and know Harry is his, hopes that people know that Louis’ the only one who gets to touch Harry like this.

And Harry’s lips are at his throat, his hand on Louis’ cock, pumping in time with his thrusts, his breath loud and cacophonous in the quiet morning (his breath loud and cacophonous in the catastrophic cataclysm of Louis’ fucked up mind), and he’s murmuring sweet nothings into Louis’ ear (“ _So beautiful, Lou, wish you could see. Never gonna let you go—let me—let me love you. You’re so fuckin—so fucking perfect—fuck, Louis.”_ ).

Louis’ grinds his hips against Harry’s, trying to get more, more, more, but it’s not enough, not enough, and he’s desperate, his body burning hot while Harry’s fingertips burn cold like the snow outside, and Harry snaps his hips forward with enough force to rock the bed, enough force to make Louis forget he’s not supposed to let himself fall so far, enough force to make a needy whine sound in the back of Louis’ throat as Harry whispers, _“Come, Louis. You’re so beautiful like this. Beautiful and wrecked and mine.”_

Louis comes and sees stars behind his eyelids while Harry fucks into him, desperate for his own release (and when Harry comes, it’s with Louis’ name across his bruised and filthy lips).

“I love you, Louis,” he murmurs into the hollow of Louis’ throat, his chest heaving while he tries to catch his breath.

‘ _I love you, too’_ Louis thinks; ‘ _Mhm..’_ Louis says.

(Louis thinks Harry’s ruined him for anyone else.)

+

Louis thinks the world is full of nameless saints that walk the earth and leave behind nothing more than footprints in the sand from where they walk beside the fallen, full of self-made gods that would rather leave their footprints on the face of those they’ve trampled in their mad dash for power, thinks the world is full of hidden demons that only come out at night to prey on the weak-minded who can’t quite deal with the tragedy of life, thinks the world is full of vicious devils that walk the thin line between sanity and insanity, hiding right beneath the skin (hiding right beneath Louis’ skin, next to the bullets Harry’s left with his guns for hands). Louis thinks the world is full of so much cruelty that the only way he stops hurting for a while is with Harry’s lips silencing his for a bit, Harry’s hands touching him and holding him together for a bit, Harry’s Novacane numbing the little bit of pain that Harry’s love can’t quite stop.

Harry is the _only_ thing that dulls the pain that eats Louis up and spits him out, leaving behind an empty shell.

(But Harry takes that shell and fills it with hope and love and other things, like his smile, his eyes, his voice like a beacon in the dark, his hands cleaning off the dust that’s collected on Louis’ ribcage, tying the strands of Louis’ heartstrings back together.)

The world moves too quickly, the people too harshly, and Louis doesn’t break no matter how far he’s bent, no matter how much he holds the weight of the world on his shoulders. The world spins around and around and around with only Harry to tether him to reality.

(Louis thinks Harry is the only thing that stops Louis from spinning too fast.)

+

(Louis thinks he loves Harry.)

(Louis thinks that maybe Harry loves him, too.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments are always welcome :) x
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://haz-made-lou-do-it.tumblr.com)  
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/bravery_has_won)


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